ILL ALL THE TIME: February 2013

I was going to write a post about the growth scan, which showed that the baby was another whopper - 95th percentile, whatever that means. And explain how my bottom was practically the size of my bump. My bottom, sadly, is neither round nor splendidly African, but square and squashy, like a tired sofa cushion. That begins around my waist and goes on almost until my knees.

Then I was going to write something about going to the loo, and how, to my horror, I had become someone who leaves a drip on the seat. Despite taking all measures not to do so, it was always there. I hate people who do that. Or worse, wee all over it. Is it because they're a hoverer? People who cover the seat with loo paper aren't much better. Their own hygiene is paramount, but they don't give two hoots about who uses it next.

And then I was going to write something about my cough. Which I just couldn't shake. But given the depression, and the insomnia, and the heartburn, and the piles, and my heavy belly (and arse) it didn't seem terribly important.

Until it all came together, and I started doing a bit of wee each time I coughed, as my big baby pummelled my bladder. Only it wasn't wee, it was my waters breaking.

Yep, just like last time, I felt silly going to hospital and thought they'd send me home. With "mental and incontinent" stamped on the front of my notes. But just like last time, it transpired that they had started seeping out. And that was that. It was Friday afternoon, I hadn't kissed Logie goodbye properly, I was 35 weeks pregnant, 2½weeks away from my planned c-section - and I was going to be having a baby by Sunday at the latest.

I hadn't packed a bag, bought any nappies or thought about what to wear in hospital. We hadn't done the great furniture shift around or built the stuff from Ikea. I had only put 2½ hours on the pay-and-display ticket.

But they put me on steroids and antibiotics (still a great name for a rock album I think) to give the bean's lungs a chance to mature, and to prevent infection. They could hold off doing the c-section til Sunday, unless I started having contractions or my temperature went up. I had mild contractions on Saturday - soooo not part of my plan to have any of those bad boys again, I'd forgotten what a funny mix of period cramp and diarrhoea gripe they are - but managed to hold out til Sunday.

I daresay I'll write up some more detail in due course, but the upshot is that we have the most gorgeous baby boy, and we are now home. His name is Felix, he is fairly blond and he weighed 7lb 1oz, which isn't a bad weight for 5 weeks premature. He had to spend a day in the neonatal unit on tubes, but is doing really well now. A tad jaundiced, has dropped a little weight, but he's in remarkably good shape. So odd to think that this little person should really still be inside my tummy for the next month.

My milk supply is behaving a bit like a teenager. It came in dramatically last week, flung the door open, engorged my boobs, cracked my nipples and practically drowned Felix. Now it has slunk out, without leaving a note, and we don't know where it's gone or why. It could be my medication, it could be stress and sleep deprivation, it could be nothing.

I am starting ECT on Friday. Whoop whoop! So with a bit of luck I'll be better by this time next week. Which is too marvellous to contemplate.

Logie is very sweet with Felix - picks up his rabbit and carefully gives it back to him, kisses him when asked, imperiously instructs "Boob!" at me whenever he cries - but is playing up like mad in every other way. Bedtime, getting dressed, getting undressed, meals: all are battlegrounds for terrible tantrums.

A few days ago, when I was trying to settle him in the evening for the third time, wailing in his cot, he suddenly said "Baby gone? Felix gone?".

My mum is being supergranny. Cooking, washing, conflict negotiating with Logie, even feeding Felix in the night. We are so lucky to have her.

Because we missed being in hospital so much, Jon had a go at severing his finger with a kitchen knife on Saturday. So we rushed back for it to be stitched up. Luckily he missed the tendon, so there should be no permanent damage. It was very odd sitting next to him while he huffed on gas and air. The nurse said no driving or nappy changing for ten days, but he did both within 48 hours - I wasn't letting him off that easily...

There'll be more to come soon, when I'll be waxing on about how best to handle midwives, and pondering why Jon has taken to wearing an old grey North Face fleece which makes him look like a Top Gear cameraman.

But I'll leave you now with some pictures of my boys...